Fewer lovely
A poem
In the midst of winter, the last word
falls to the ground. Few flowers bloom,
fewer lovely. There is no rite or ceremony
to know the cycle of heartbreak
and renewal. Grief is not tidy.
I wade in a spiral of mourning, living
yet not living. My name has lost its way;
A new self carries the dead. When
will I be able to look back on my pain
from the vantage point of wisdom?
I locked arms with Death, but his spade
kept lifting. A wind breaks over us.
The orchard is black. How can it be
that a world so full and busy
is suddenly voiceless and absurd.
May 24th, 2007 at 8:03 pm
this poem is lovely, Yen, a mournful child born of your love with Jesse, and your mutual sorrow
I hope you write more on your continuing journey to that vantage point, always just over the horizon, and always beckoning, and always wanting to be made into being through your words
(hug)
May 25th, 2007 at 8:40 am
oh yen, what a beautiful poem.
May 25th, 2007 at 9:32 am
(gorgeous)
the world will change, yet again. it’s just in that stage before it blooms again…
(gestation)
(love)
May 26th, 2007 at 11:49 pm
Oh Yen, I wish there was something I could do to help you right now. I can only imagine how hard it is for you. Please know I hold you dear in my thoughts and prayers.
Laurie